


The Loathly Worm

by Selden



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Arguably Dubcon, Community: hd_erised, Descriptions of Injury, M/M, Mention of Minor Character Death, Secret Identity, a Loathly Worm, evil ghosts, the power of True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-06 12:55:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8752399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selden/pseuds/Selden
Summary: When Draco Malfoy is forced to go undercover among the remaining Death Eaters in the aftermath of the war, the last person he expects to find there is Harry Potter.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [agentmoppet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentmoppet/gifts).



> Enormous thanks to my beta, M, and to the mods for being incredibly patient with me. Agentmoppet, I hope you find something here to enjoy!
> 
> Also, if you're wondering about the title, [this](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Laidly_Worm_of_Spindleston_Heugh) or [this](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Laily_Worm_and_the_Machrel_of_the_Sea) might help.

Years later, Draco Malfoy would claim that he had twigged who Harry Potter was at the outset, even though, as he was also fond of mentioning, Harry had been disguised at the time as a Death Eater with horn-rimmed spectacles and an incipient bald patch.

To those who were enough in the know for this story to seem less than immediately credible, both Draco and Harry were likely to claim that the moment of recognition had come in the middle of a Death Eater mission. “Neither of us were going to do what they’d ordered us to, not this time. Not even if meant breaking cover,” Harry would explain. “So as soon as we were alone, both of us tried to nobble each other.”

“Absolutely,” Draco would break in at this point. “Nobble.”

At which point audiences of a juvenile disposition (Ron Weasley) would snicker, and the conversation would most likely move on to other, less fraught, topics.

 

Neither Harry nor Draco admitted that the nobbling in question had involved Draco casting the Imperius Curse just a second before Harry hit him with Expelliarmus. Draco had been stood there in a grubby little Glasgow backstreet, feeling vaguely sorry that he was going to have to curse Septimus Quarl, who was the only half-way decent one among their group of Death Eaters and who gave a fantastic blow-job. He’d been feeling relieved, as well, that it was just Quarl, who could be dealt with, on the scene – that he could Imperio him into believing some bullshit story and that he, Draco, wouldn’t have to do _that_ to those Muggles. He’d even found that casting Imperio had given him the same kind of ugly relief as it had in Sixth Year at school – the assurance that this time, at least, the world would behave as it should, and that he would be obeyed without hesitation or question.

Then his wand had flown out of his hand, and as he was scrabbling around for it in the gutter, Septimus had blinked a bit and rubbed his forehead. Then he’d patted awkardly at his face, which should have struck Draco as suspicious at the time, although to be fair he’d been distracted, what with expecting to be Crucio-ed or worse at any moment – Septimus, of course, still had his wand, and the Imperio had rolled off him like water off a rather professorial looking duck.

“Did you just hit me with Imperio, Ernest?” Septimus had asked mildly, keeping his wand trained steadily on Draco. “It’s almost as if you don’t want this mission to be a success.” (Draco, they usually had to remind people at this point, was disguised himself. Ernest Crumplehorn was a short, rather beaky-nosed wizard, with hair almost as greasy as Snape’s).

At which Draco, although he’d reached his wand, found that he’d also reached some kind of limit. “I can’t say I do, as a matter of fact,” he’d said, equally mildly. Then, remembering some of the things his Aunt Bella used to say to him: “I’m afraid I don’t have the stomach for it.” Only then had it dawned on him that Septimus had fired off his own spell practically at the same moment he’d tried his Imperio. He’d looked up at Septimus, who was silhouetted against the grey-pink sunset sky, looking surprisingly unruffled at being betrayed by a trusted comrade. There’d been something about the way he held himself, as well, Draco thought later. But at the time, he plastered his most knowing smirk on his face and levered himself to his feet. “You don’t seem very keen on it yourself,” he said, “given that you started off by disarming me. What were you planning to do next – stun me and stash me somewhere? A neat little Avada, perhaps?”

“I was planning on the first one, actually,” Septimus had said. “And, no, I’m not really very keen on collecting twenty Muggle spleens. Sounds messy.” He’d lowered his wand, then, and given Draco a long, considering look. “How about we report back that the Ministry was snooping around? I hear they do have an arrangement with the local gargoyles. We can head back and tell them to suck it up and use Hippocampus spleens instead.”

“There really is very little difference, from a potion-brewing perspective,” Draco had allowed.

It was at about this point in the story that they usually put the moment of recognition.

“I realised it was a mistake as soon as I said it,” Draco would say. “My cover identity wasn’t the sort to know anything about potions.”

“And I showed I was suspicious,” Harry would continue, “which was a mistake, because – ”

“Because it’s not as if a great many people know I have a talent for Potions. Which got _me_ thinking about how many die-hard – excuse the pun – how many die-hard Death Eaters would be likely to go for Expelliarmus as their offensive spell of choice. Not to mention how many little things would make much more sense if there’d been someone sneaking around the place in an Invisibility Cloak.”

“Yeah,” Harry would say. “We both sort of twigged at the same time, more or less. Which worked out okay in the long run, after all.”

It was a good story. People liked it. Even the Daily Prophet, which took to the Saviour of the Wizarding World marrying an ex-Death Eater about as well as most people took to the Bat Bogey Hex, ended up printing a not-completely damning version - something Draco was rather proud of, since he’d leaked the story to them himself.

The truth of the matter, though, was that their cover identities had begun to unravel – in retrospect, at least - about an hour and a half later, right in the middle of Harry giving Draco a messy and enthusiastic blowjob.

 

\--

 

The blowjob in question took place back in the Death Eater headquarters, an ancient castle which grew, like a black and broken tooth, out of a bleak promontory on a particularly wind-bitten stretch of Scottish coast. The castle was surrounded on the landward side by the remains of prehistoric earthworks, as if the socket of the tooth had gum disease. Beyond that, there was a small patch of gnarled and spiky enchanted forest – rather stunted, admittedly, by the fierce winds which ripped in off the grey and roiling sea. The sea itself lay in wait at the bottom of high sheer cliffs, gnashing at the sharp rocks far below. At low tide, it would suck itself back out of the ragged little inlets on either side of the headland, revealing narrow stretches of black pebbles, gleaming like spider eggs, still flecked with yellowish foam. Out towards the horizon, small rocky islands hunched low in the water, battered and occasionally almost completely obscured by sheets of spray. The whole place stank of the Dark Arts. To make matters worse – or better, depending on your tastes – the castle itself was so very ancient that a good half of the building was nothing but ghost, and the rest was prone to unnerving subsidences and had ectoplasm coming up through the floorboards. At night the whole place shone with a sickly, blue-white glow, which was reflected in the sea at the base of the cliffs as if some huge and rotten phosphorescent beast was waiting, ready to surface, near the shore.

They’d both received a good dose of Crucio in response to the failure of their mission on their return to the castle, which had left them, as usual, feeling drained and keyed-up all at the same time, as if they’d just had a swim in freezing cold water with a hefty dose of slow-acting poison dashed in for good measure. The mouldering bedroom Draco had claimed for himself was in one of the less-ghostly towers, up several flights of crumbling stairs and one terrifying scramble across ruined battlements, so by the time they’d stumbled their way there, half-racing each other, half holding each other up, they should have been too exhausted to move, let alone fuck.

Instead, Harry had slammed Draco down on the bed and started ripping his robes open. Draco, coughing a bit from the clouds of bluish, mildew-smelling dust billowing around them, had helped as much as he could. The last of the light had been filtering in through the tall windows, turned pale and filmy by the ghostly turret opposite, and the air was very cold on his bare stomach. Septimus’ – Harry’s – hands, pressing down hard on his hips, were cold as well. But they felt like the only warm thing there was in the world, and they stopped Draco thinking of things he didn’t want to think about, which, back then, was almost everything. Harry’s mouth was even better at that, though, and that wasn’t cold at all.

This wasn’t the first time they’d done this, or even the fifth. It felt like the best, though; it always did. Sharp aftershocks of pain raced through Draco, pinching up and down his spine and mixing with the pleasure coming from his cock. He could feel Harry’s body shaking, as if he had a heavy fever. He felt feverish himself, achy and weightless, with only Harry’s - Septimus', that is - hands holding him down to the rotten silk of the bedcovers. This was no excuse, though, for what he said next.

“Potter,” said Draco, grinding his head back into the covers.

Septimus choked on Draco’s cock. When he’d finished spluttering, he sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth. “What did you just say?” he asked. “Wait, no, don’t tell me. I heard it the first time.”

Draco propped himself up on his elbows, feeling chilly and ridiculous. “What,” he said, with as much dignity as he could muster, trying to ignore his rapidly wilting cock. “Haven’t you ever fantasised about fucking Harry Potter before? I wouldn’t imagine it’s all that recherché, as fantasies go.”

“I can’t say I have, really, no,” said Septimus. He rubbed his hands together and blew out a long plume of white breath. “It’s cold as fuck in here, isn’t it?”

Draco sighed and started spelling his robes back together. “I suppose I can’t persuade you into a quick bout of transfiguration, then?” he asked, for the look of the thing. He wasn’t sure if he really fancied the idea or not, but it seemed worth a try, under the circumstances. “I can’t say you’d make a very convincing Saviour, but you never know. Just think, you could experience the joy of a full head of hair for an evening or so.”

“Yeah, and have you fucking me while moaning ‘Potter’, I bet,” said Septimus. “I think I’ll pass.” He paused, and looked thoughtfully at Draco. “Just ‘Potter’, wasn’t it,” he said to himself. “Huh.”

Which was the moment, Harry would later admit, that he began to guess just what the Ministry had done.

 

\--

 

What the Ministry had done, when it came to Draco, had been quite simple. Four months, five days, and ten or so hours before the blowjob incident, Kingsley Shacklebolt had leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers together, and told Draco that he was about to be of real service to the Wizarding World.

“I am?” Draco had said. “Dear me, what a privilege.” Then he’d shut his mouth and tried hard to look as if he was being sincere. He’d been in a grey little cell in the Ministry for quite a while by then, and the light in the Minister’s office was hurting his eyes.

“I’m so glad you see it like that, Mr Malfoy,” Shacklebolt had said. “You see, you’re in something of a unique position. You have a Dark Mark on your arm, but you are neither dead, insane, nor lacking in a certain, shall we say, ideological flexibility.”

“Well, thank you,” Draco had said. “I’ll testify against anyone you want me to, if that’s what you’re asking. In return for certain considerations, that is. Leniency for myself and my family, to start with. And of course, we'd keep the Manor and Malfoy holdings in their entirety.”

“Mr Malfoy,” Shacklebolt had said, “I can offer you clemency, let alone leniency. A complete commutation of any sentences likely to be handed down for yourself and your parents in the trials to come. And when I say ‘likely’,” he had continued, “I mean ‘certain’.”

Draco had gazed dimly past the waving tendrils of the pot plant on Shacklebolt’s desk, blinking away a sudden swimming dazzle which made him see briefly double. Seeing two Ministers was no more reassuring than one – though, he noticed, they both looked rather worn. “How exactly will I be serving the Wizarding World, then?” he’d asked, a little dully. A deal this good had to come with a fairly substantial catch, after all.

“Ah,” Shacklebolt had said. “Welcome to the Ministry for Magic, Mr Malfoy. You’ll be working for us for the foreseeable future. Infiltration division. You get a badge and everything.” He’d leaned forwards, patting a dog-eared scroll of papers on his desk. “You see, Mr Malfoy, not all You Know Who’s Death Eaters are yet in Ministry custody. One of the remaining factions in particular is making some quite unsettling noises. There have been unfortunate incidents involving the Muggle population – I take it you understand the kind of thing I’m talking about? I assisted in clearing out Malfoy Manor personally, you know.”

“I know,” Draco had said. “That is to say I didn’t – ”

“As you say, Mr Malfoy,” Shacklebolt had said. “We have your testimony under Veritaserum, if you recall. Now, however, if it helps you to get on the right side of your new friends, you very much _will_. I expect you to do whatever it takes.”

“I see,” Draco had said. “Right.”

“I understand that your face might be rather a liability amongst the surviving Death Eaters,” Shacklebolt had said. “The Malfoys did make themselves highly unpopular. But we have some quite sophisticated disguise potions at our disposal here.”

“How convenient, Minister.”

“Indeed. Unfortunately, the Death Eaters in question seem capable of identifying any attempt we’ve made at falsifying a Dark Mark. It’s been quite an issue for us. But it shouldn’t be an issue for you, should it?”

“I suppose not.”

“Precisely. Now, Mr Malfoy,” Shacklebolt had said. “Are you ready to take an Unbreakable Vow?”

 

Which was how Draco had found himself dosed up on some extra-strength version of Polyjuice Potion, with Ernest Crumplehorn’s papers in his cloak pocket and strict instructions not to contact the Ministry until he had clear intelligence as to what, precisely, the Death Eater cell in question was planning.

“Something big,” Shacklebolt had said. “We need specifics. Naturally, you understand the consequences of taking your mission, shall we say, less than seriously?”

“I know what an Unbreakable Vow is, Minister,” Draco had said. He’d stared down at the scroll in his hands and sighed. “‘Ernest Crumplehorn?’”

“I never said _we_ had to take everything seriously at this end,” Shacklebolt had said. “I learned that from Albus. And we wouldn’t want you to end up with a story which paints you in too dashing a light, would we? Mr _Malfoy_.”

 

\--

 

Infiltrating the Death Eaters had been really alarmingly easy. They called themselves the Worm’s Teeth and spent most of their time lurking in their half-ghost castle, spelling away their chilblains and runny noses. Sure enough, the wards let through anyone with a true Dark Mark on their arm, and the interview process was not extensive.

“Do you despise Mudbloods and Muggles and wish to bring about the Dark Lord’s great vision of a purified Magical World?” The leader of the Worm’s Teeth, an extremely tall witch with a great deal of silver hair piled into a scraggly bun, had stared at him, tapping her wand against her rather jagged and translucent teeth.

Ernest Crumplehorn had stared back up at her, nodding fervently. “Yes, yes, very much so,” he’d said. “Your most excellent Dark Ladyship.”

“Lady Strindle is quite sufficient, thank you.” She’d tucked her wand away into her hair as she spoke, turning back to a desk piled high with mouldering scrolls and half-burnt papers. Draco could see all this quite clearly through her, robes and all, because Lady Strindle, as well as being the leader of a cadre of resilient and unpleasant Death Eaters, was a ghost, and as such, silvery and translucent from her precarious bun to her wickedly pointy boots. Now, she waved one shimmering hand vaguely towards Draco, turning the pages of a book as ghostly as she was. “Take Mr Crumplehorn away and put him to work, please,” she’d said. “I have research to be getting on with.”

Draco had nodded obsequiously and followed a particularly hulking Death Eater towards the door. Glancing over his shoulder as he went at the teetering piles of ghostly silver books, all of them quite intangible to living flesh, he had been struck with the sinking realisation that the specifics of Lady Strindle’s plan might not be quite as easy to get a handle on as he’d anticipated.

 

\--

 

“She’s a creepy, creepy witch,” he’d said later. It was the awkward aftermath of the blowjob incident, when they were both huddling around a sour little fire Draco had conjured up in the fireplace of his room. “And I’m not just saying that because she’s a ghost.”

“I don’t understand how she can be a ghost,” said Harry, or rather Septimus. “Not and do half the things she does. None of the ghosts at – ”

“At Hogwarts?”

“If you like. None of them could do magic, let alone cast a Crucio.”

“I think it’s safe to say,” said Draco, “that Lady Strindle is no ordinary ghost.”

Septimus nodded glumly, flicking a vicious shower of sparks towards the fire with his wand. “I can tell you went to Hogwarts as well, you know,” he said. “Just so you know. It’s the way you said ‘Potter,’ just like they did at school.”

“Really,” said Draco. “What a stunning deduction. It’s not as if almost every single British witch and wizard has gone to school there for centuries.”

Septimus shrugged. “Sounds as if you went there at the same time as Potter, though,” he said. “Which is odd, given how old you look. You could call it creepy, even.”

Draco stared at him. By now, thanks to the blow-job debacle - during which he had not, of course, been thinking in any serious way about Harry Potter, much less, Merlin forfend, imaging Septimus _as_ Potter - he was half-way certain that Septimus was a Ministry flunky, sent to keep an eye on him. Possibly Shacklebolt had lied about the Dark Mark being impossible to fake. Alternatively, Septimus was another Death Eater deemed toothless enough to send out to do the Ministry’s dirty work for them - though it did seem a little odd that he, like Draco, should have proved toothless enough to balk at a simple little spleen-collection operation. Draco wasn't quite sure what had come over himself, let alone Septimus.

Then again, the poor sod could just be growing a conscience. Stranger things, he supposed, had probably happened. Still. Time to deflect and distract, as the Ministry official who’d given him a brief, monotone recital of infiltration tactics had helpfully suggested. “Not half as creepy as Lady Strindle,” he said bracingly. “Though I’m told she was world-famous for her Transfiguration prowess, back in her day.”

As one might expect of a possible fellow spy, Septimus perked up immediately. “Really?”

Draco nodded. “She turned her own daughter into a Loathly Worm,” he said. “Caused quite the stir, I believe.”

“A Loathly what?”

“A Loathly Worm. A large and unpleasant snake monster.”

“Oh. I was imagining a little earthworm sort of thing,” said Septimus. “What did she do that for, then?”

“Oh, the daughter was a Muggle-lover, I believe. She was all set to inherit the castle, as well. Lady Strindle didn’t think much of that, as you can imagine.”

“Yeah, I can’t see that going down well. No wonder she was such a fan of V – of the Dark Lord. So, what happened to the daughter?”

Draco paused. He’d pieced the story together from comments dropped by the other Death Eaters at the castle and old tales his mother had told him as a child. Now, though, those stories had a rather different weight to them. “Some stories say that a Muggle prince came along and cured her with a true love’s kiss,” he said cautiously. “But I was always told that what really happened was that her mother took pity on her in the end and transfigured her into one of those islands out in the bay. ‘Pity’ being a relative term here, of course.”

“Of course,” said Septimus. “Wow. What a touching story of family harmony.”

“It’s a story about vicious and inventive revenge and the dangers of being a Muggle-loving traitor,” said Draco, feeling obscurely stung. “My mother used to tell it to me at bedtime before I went to sleep.”

For some reason, this sent Septimus off into peals of laughter. “Fuck me,” he managed to say in the end, wheezing slightly. “Why does that not surprise me?”

Draco sniffed. For some reason, it was hard to keep himself annoyed at Septimus for very long, even if he was probably a Ministry spy or an extremely inept Death Eater. “I really don’t know why it should,” he said primly. “And I _would_ have fucked you, if you hadn’t gone and got distracted for really no reason at all.”

Which gave him, he felt, sending his own shower of sparks into the fire, a rather satisfyingly final last word.

 

\--

 

After that, Draco found himself, to his horror, almost enjoying being a Ministry spy. He didn’t think at all about Harry Potter – which took, admittedly, quite a bit of effort – and he especially didn’t think about how he’d started to like Septimus rather than just deigning to fuck or be fucked by him on occasion. This last was particularly difficult, because after the spleen-collecting fiasco Lady Strindle seemed to have decided that her two newest acquisitions were more or less worthless. She put them to work repairing the castle, which involved a great deal of time spent in close proximity. It was also harder than it looked: the castle apparently did not want in the least to be repaired. Stones slid out of place with a great grating rumble as soon as their backs were turned, leaving pallid ghost-walls wavering in their place. Windows cracked and shivered out of their frames almost before they’d been spelled into them, letting in gouts of freezing, salty air through panes of long-lost stained glass. Some of the ghostly stained glass, Draco noticed, certainly showed a large and Loathly Worm, rising up above a small figure sporting billowing robes and a heroic pose.

“I suppose it wouldn’t be a great idea to ask Lady Strindle if the story is true, would it?” said Septimus, coming up behind Draco and staring at the ghost of the window. They were in a large hall, hung with rotted tapestries and half in ruins. The walls and floor were streaked with seagull shit: the mostly-ghostly roof, strung though it was with rather spectacular flickering blue-white chandeliers, like the ghosts of upside-down fountains, was not good at keeping out the elements, or the gulls.

“I shouldn’t think so, no,” said Draco. “But the story wasn’t called ‘the Loathly Worm of Strindle Head’ for nothing, I imagine. And the Vellet twins swear she’s the Lady from the story.”

“Oh, well,” said Septimus. “If the _Vellet twins_ say so.”

The Vellet twins were two rather blowsy middle-aged witches who ran their potions workshop rather like a village bakery, in an endless buzz of gentle gossip and general busy-ness. Draco was constantly expecting to see them brushing flour off their aprons, rather than dust of Hellebore or powdered Ashwinder eggs. Amongst the taciturn and generally rather Goyle-esque Death Eaters in the castle, they were a reliable source of hearsay and rumour. One of the sisters had knitted Draco a scarf, which he had surreptitiously incinerated in case of curses (and also, admittedly, because it was a nasty shade of puce). They also had a deep and abiding hatred of Muggles and Muggleborn witches and wizards: the spleen-hunt had been undertaken at their request.

“Personally,” said Draco, “I just hope the Worm is properly dead. None of this half-ghost nonsense.” He stared up at the shape in the stained glass, which seemed to involve a great many scales and loops of snaky flesh, not to mention teeth as long as the small figure’s arm. He was distinctly reminded of Nagini, which forced him to remember that he owed a debt of gratitude to – of all people – Neville Longbottom, and which in turn brought him perilously close to thinking about Harry Potter.

All in all, it was rather a relief when he stepped forwards and put his foot through a ghostly section of pavement for the third time that day.

“This is worse than Hogwarts,” Septimus said crossly, helping him up. “At least there the vanishing steps didn’t usually move around.”

“And they didn’t grow,” Draco agreed, patting his shin gingerly. He stared down through the translucent section of floor at the sea breaking against sharp black rocks: the hall jutted out from the main body of the castle. The sea was far enough below that there were seagulls flying underneath them, sending thin keening noises over the faint sound of the waves. “I think I may have a serious injury, you know.” He limped his way over to the nearest completely solid patch of castle and sat down, doing his best to look woebegone. “I’m afraid you may have to soldier on without me,” he said, waving one hand towards Septimus. “I have faith in you, though. Don’t worry about me.”

“Oh,” said Septimus, rolling his eyes and casting a quick Episkey on Draco’s leg. “I won’t.”

“Hey!”

“You’re welcome,” said Septimus, with revolting smugness. “Now get off your arse and help me levitate this section of wall.”

“You know,” said Draco bitterly, “I’m almost certain you’re a Ministry spy. In fact,” he added, staring at Septimus’ horn-rimmed spectacles and comically unremarkable face, “I bet you’re in disguise, as well. No self-respecting wizard would wear a face like that if they didn’t have to.”

“That’s a really hurtful thing to say, Ernest,” said Septimus. “Exclusionary rhetoric and, uh, judging by mere appearances is the sign of a shallow individual, unable to stand up against the sickness in our broader society.” He paused, looking smugger than ever.

Draco was impressed, despite himself. “Where on earth did you get all that bollocks from?” he asked. “Anyway, I bet you’re secretly a Gryffindor. Probably one of those disgusting little Creevey brothers, still trying to prove himself a hero after the fact.”

Which was how Draco discovered what it felt like to be hit rather hard on the jaw. For a moment he thought a piece of the castle had fallen on him, but when he looked up at Septimus he discovered that all his levity had fallen away like an old cloak. Septimus looked _furious_.

“Oh,” said Draco. He worked his jaw, sending an ugly ache up to settle behind his eyes, and cast as solid a Healing spell as he could manage towards the place where he’d been hit. “Are you actually one of the Creeveys, then? The older one, I hope.”

At this, Septimus sagged back against the nearest wall, as if all the air had gone out of him. “Colin Creevey died in the Battle of Hogwarts, you idiot,” he said evenly. “And then their father got almost killed by a group of Death Eaters who turned up at a memorial ceremony. Right in front of your precious Harry Potter, as it happens, who did sweet fuck all about it. Mr Creevey’s still in St Mungo's, actually. Muggles don’t take very well to being hit with curses.”

“Oh,” said Draco again. “Sorry. I suppose.”

Septimus shrugged. “Apparently, you didn’t know. And of course it was a victory for our side, and so on. Good for us.”

“Ah,” said Draco. “So that’s why you punched me in the jaw, then. In a celebratory fashion.”

Septimus sighed and pushed himself away from the wall. “Let’s go with that,” he said wearily.

“Let’s not,” Draco suggested. “I for one – ”

“Let’s fuck instead,” said Septimus. “Come on, we’ve got hours before we have to report in.”

And Draco, rubbing his jaw and wondering helplessly which do-gooder-in-disguise, exactly, he was dealing with, found himself thoroughly and vigorously deflected and distracted, at least for the next short while.

 

\--

 

After this episode, Draco found himself taking the idea that Septimus was some kind of willing and Gryffindor-ish spy for the Ministry almost for granted. More to the point, he found himself rather enjoying the assumption that Septimus thought the same thing – right down to the ‘willing’ part. As far as Septimus was concerned, he was a fellow crusader for right and justice and not-kneeling-to-Dark-Lords. It made him feel something almost like guilt if he thought about it for too long, but generally he managed not to think about it at all. The best way to not-think was of course sex, which, Draco rather suspected, was Septimus’ philosophy as well. Certainly, he was coming to realise that Septimus – as you might suppose of someone who volunteered to act as a spy in a castle full of Death Eaters – was not particularly well adjusted himself.

For instance, there was the incident of the day-flies. These were buzzing little Dark creatures, looking rather like tiny flying spider-crabs and glowing like Golden Snitches, which infested the scrubby patch of enchanted forest on the landward side of the castle. Draco and Septimus had been sent out to cast long-range stabilising spells on the outer walls, and were standing in the middle of a tangle of wind-stunted blackthorn trees, breathing hard and trying to avoid the thorns. They’d just finished jerking one another off, and Draco was feeling warm and weighed down with sated lust, despite the chill wind coming through his warming charm.

“It must be eating Potter up,” he said thoughtfully, tucking his cock back into his trousers. “Having a Muggle attacked right in front of him like that.” Then he stopped, feeling almost as much of a fool as he had post-blowjob.

“Are you going to keep on bringing Potter up when we’re getting off?” Septimus asked, rather acidly. “I’d just like some warning, is all.”

“I was just thinking,” Draco muttered.

“Merlin,” said Septimus. “You really do have a thing for him, don’t you?” He was staring at Draco now, as if he’d never seen him before.

“I don’t see how I can be blamed for gloating over the misfortunes of my enemies,” said Draco mulishly. “And actually failing to save someone is a misfortune, by Potter’s standards.”

“How do you know he even tried?”

“Oh,” said Draco, trying very hard not to remember the Room of Requirement, “he tried, all right. I can tell you that much.”

It was at about this point that the day-flies turned up. They looked very pretty, flitting through the knotty tangle of the winter trees, darting amongst black branches thick with thorns and ragged with grey-green lichen. The ground in the enchanted forest was squelchy and brackish at the best of times, and the glow of the day-flies reflected off the dark and sullen standing water like the glints of several hundred tiny suns.

“Oh, Merlin,” said Draco, and cast a rather wavery Shield Charm around himself. “This is all we need.”

“What are they?” Septimus asked, staring around. “They’re really, really pretty.”

“They’re day-flies, you moron,” said Draco. “Touching one takes a day off your life.”

“Oh, really?” said Septimus. He smiled faintly and reached out his hand. “That’s quite a thing.”

At which point Draco, whose only real defensive skill was Occlumency, surprised himself by casting the fastest _Protego_ of his life.

“What did you do that for?” asked Septimus, watching the day-flies buzz hopefully up against the charm. “It’s only a day.”

“What the fuck do you mean, ‘only a day’,” Draco spat. “Let alone how it would be more like several hundred days once this little swarm got a real hold of you. Wizards have lost most of a lifetime to these things, you know.” He grabbed Septimus’ arm and began marching him back to the dubious safety of the castle, angrier than he could remember being since before the war. “You stupid, stupid fuck,” he said, tightening his grip. “Don’t you ever do something like that again.”

“I don’t see why you’re so upset,” said Septimus mildly. But he let Draco pull him along all the way to the castle and suck his cock as if it was the last chance he’d get, so all in all Draco felt pretty much vindicated.This time around, his imagination didn't even try to get away from him mid-sex: he didn't want anyone there, he was faintly alarmed to realise, but Septimus himself, even if he was rather unprepossessing-looking and evidently somewhat fucked in the head.

Draco didn’t care to dwell much on why he’d been so very angry, naturally. But later that night he dreamed about Golden Snitches with sharp little teeth eating Harry Potter by inches, which, on reflection, should really have told him something.

 

\--

 

Then there was the time when Draco caught Septimus eating ghost-apples. Strindle castle had a tiny square central courtyard, much overhung with turrets and embrasures and odd stepped pinnacles, so that the sky above showed as a kind of ragged crack in the dark and salt-bloomed stone. In the middle of the courtyard, growing improbably out of what looked like an old well, was an apple tree.

“Which anyone could have seen died centuries ago,” said Draco. “It’s practically Petrified.”

This was after he’d stopped a midnight foray into the Vellet twins’ workshop – which seemed to be full of nothing but half-finished hunger potions – on account of seeing Septimus through the window, sitting down under the apple tree and solemnly biting into a dull white apple.

“Which is equally obviously a ghost,” said Draco. “Look at that thing. It’s white all over. And it’s glowing.”

“I thought it was just a strange variety,” said Septimus. “There’s plenty of strange fruit and veg in the Wizarding World.”

Draco stared at him. Septimus, he realised, was probably not only a Ministry spy. He was a Mudblood – Muggleborn, Draco told himself dutifully – or something similar. At some point he was going to talk about the Wizarding World as if it was _weird_ in front of a proper Death Eater, and then he was going to wind up dead himself.

“It tastes okay,” said Septimus, polishing the apple on his sleeve.

“How on earth,” said Draco, “can you even hold it?”

At this, Septimus did look a bit alarmed. “Oh,” he said sheepishly. “I had a near-death experience of sorts a little while ago. It left me with a bit of an odd relationship with ghosts and so forth.”

“I suppose that explains why you haven’t fallen through any of the giant gaping holes in the floor,” said Draco bitterly. He was about to ask what how on earth nearly dying would let you touch ghosts – that was fairy-story stuff, straight out of a tale of the Deathly Hallows – when a thought hit him. “Wait,” he said. “I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to look through any of Lady Strindle’s documents, have you? I’d just like to know if our esteemed leader has any kind of plan beyond home improvements.”

Septimus shook his head glumly. “No such luck,” he said. “Trust me, I’ve tried. There’s nothing there except a lot of stuff about Transfiguration theory, which to be honest goes mostly over my head. But it’s just theory, that’s the thing. Nothing specific. And there are loads of spells for increasing the appetite, of all things.”

“The Vellet twins are working on something similar. Maybe Lady Strindle’s going to attack the Ministry and make everybody especially hungry. Which could be quite unpleasant," said Draco thoughtfully, "depending on just how hungry people get.”

“Yeah. Or maybe she’s trying to find a way to get people to enjoy eating the castle porridge.”

Draco shuddered. The main source of food in the castle kitchens was an ancient, battered, and bottomless iron cauldron, which produced an everlasting supply of thick, lumpy porridge. The cauldron had once been very precious – you could tell by the empty settings on the sides where jewels had been prised loose – but the best you could say about the porridge was that it was hot.

"I thought you liked that porridge," he said. "You spend enough time watching that cauldron, at least." Which was nothing but the truth: Septimus seemed oddly fascinated by the bottomless cauldron, which sat glopping and bubbling in the castle's vast and largely empty kitchens like a tiny pit of knobbly grey lava.

"It's just amazing, that's all," said Septimus, rather defensively. "It never runs out! I wish I'd had something like that, growing up."

"Oh," said Draco. Definitely Muggleborn, then. "We had one for mulled wine, I think. It only came out at Christmas, though."

"Right," said Septimus. "Naturally."

Draco was pretty sure Septimus was rolling his eyes. “What _does_ that apple taste like?” he asked hastily. “Better than the porridge, at least?”

“Like an apple but sort of faded?” said Septimus. “Here, I’ll show you.” He leaned over and kissed Draco, a little awkwardly. It was the first time, Draco thought dizzily, that they’d kissed outside of fucking each other. Septimus’ lips were chapped, and his fingertips were freezing against Draco’s cheek. But he was kissing Draco as if there was nothing else in the world, not even the little patch of sky high above them, pitch black and gritty with stars.

 

“I didn’t taste any apple,” said Draco, a while later. They were sitting back on the edge of the old well, their shoulders touching.

“I suppose it really was a ghost, then,” said Septimus. He stared up at the pale grey apples, still hanging from the tree over their heads. “It seemed so real, is all.”

“Ghosts _are_ real,” said Draco. “That doesn’t mean the living should get too friendly with the dead.”

“I suppose,” said Septimus. “It’s just, after the war –”

“After the war what?”

“There are a lot of dead people? Never mind,” said Septimus. “It’s stupid. And you’re right, I suppose. Think of Professor Binns.”

Draco snorted. “Yeah, he’s a good argument for letting the dead rest.”

“Or at least telling them to update their curriculum. You should hear one of my friends on the subject. She could go on for days.”

“Well, it’s hard to argue in favour of ignoring every single advance in scholarship since the twenties,” said Draco. “His account of the Third Goblin War, for one, was quite simply incorrect.”

“What a tragedy for modern education,” said Septimus sagely.

“It is!” Draco tried his hardest to elbow Septimus in the side without moving too much. He didn’t want to move – he had a strong feeling that Ernest Crumplehorn was getting a taste of something which he, Draco Malfoy, would never have been able to grasp. If they stood up, he felt his fancy Polyjuice ration would wear out all of a sudden, hours before its time, and he’d be left standing there with hair the colour of dead apples. Septimus would _know_. And Septimus’ face would shift and shiver in its turn, and reveal – someone. Draco bit the inside of his cheek. Better not to think about it. He stared out at the dank stone of the courtyard; the little shifts of ghost-light showing in the cracks. Then he blinked. Not all the light around them was ghost-coloured. “Is there a torch burning somewhere? Or a fire?”

Septimus grinned and thumped the roots of the apple tree, stretched out over the top of the well behind their backs. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I cast a Protego ages ago, when I first noticed them. And there's about fifty old Shield Charms across the top of the well, anyway. The well must connect through to the wood outside, somehow or other.” His face, as he spoke, was bathed with a golden glow, getting brighter and brighter. Draco twisted around and looked down, through the gnarled roots of the dead tree. The old well was full, and growing fuller, of day-flies: thousands and thousands of them, shining like liquid gold. “They’re amazing, aren’t they,” said Septimus. “Sorry I was weird about them earlier.”

Draco stared down at the buzzing tide of gold and forgot, for the moment, to worry about disguises or secrets or guilt. “They’re attracted to life,” he heard himself say, softly. “You are alive, you know.”

“I know.” Septimus moved until he was half-draped over Draco, looking down over his shoulder at the golden light between the roots. “We should try that apple-tasting thing again,” he said, his lips just by Draco’s ear. “Just in case.”

“You know,” said Draco, turning to meet his lips, “just sometimes, you _do_ manage to talk sense.”

Beneath them, unheeded, the old well boiled and churned with several centuries'-worth of golden death. But neither of them paid it any further mind.

 

\--

 

Things did not come to a head, however, until Draco discovered the Muggles in the cellars.

There were twenty of them exactly, locked away in a room which smelled strongly of the sea and was full of the dim booming sound of waves, hitting the cliff-face on the other side of the wall. This part of the castle was so far down that none of it was even ghost: the Muggles’ dungeon was lit with a single candle, its flame stunted and pale as a beansprout growing in the dark. Draco could hardly see the Muggles, but he had heard them from two corridors away. They were making horrible noises, like animals. When he cast a Lumos, he saw that they were crouching and lying all over the uneven, slimy floor, all of them holding their stomachs as if their guts were about to drop out.

Draco had absolutely no doubt that every one of the Muggles was missing a spleen. The Vellet sisters had probably Summoned the things right out of them and trotted off back to their laboratory without stopping to think twice about the leftovers: they wouldn’t last long down here, after all, and casting twenty Killing Curses was probably hard work. Draco, who had sneaked his way down to the cellars in the vague hope that he’d find some non-incorporeal evidence of Lady Strindle’s plans hidden in some dark corner, leaned over to one side of the doorway and was, quite neatly, sick.

Then he unlocked the cell and started casting healing charms, stepping gingerly around the fallen Muggles. Some of the Muggles, after being healed, stopped groaning and started yelling. Draco groaned himself, and cast Silencing and Shield Charms, which made the Muggles angrier but kept them quiet and contained. They looked just like ordinary witches and wizards, he couldn’t help noticing – which is to say, both strange and ridiculous when they were opening their mouths with no sound coming out, like angry goldfish. He’d have to tell Septimus, he thought vaguely. And then he stopped thinking and began casting healing charms again. It was hard, delicate work. It was a good thing, he realised, that he had spent so much of the war reading up on Healing magic in the library of the Manor. It hadn’t done much for him or his parents – none of the Dark Lord’s spells had left much in the way of physical damage – but it was coming in useful now. His father, he thought, would be _appalled_.

By the end, he was quite pleased that none of the Muggles had died. Really, he thought, he had quite a bit of stamina when it came to spellcasting.

Then he tried Imperio. “You will follow me out of the castle, attracting the least possible amount of attention,” he told the Muggles. “When we reach the Muggle world, you will help each other reach a place of safety. And then you’ll forget everything that just happened.” He looked around at the Muggles, who were holding each other up and clutching at their stomachs. “And then you’ll go and visit a Muggle doctor, just in case,” he added hastily. Who knew whether Muggles were any good at re-growing spleens?

The Muggles stared at him. Some of them got up, their faces unmistakably peaceful and slack with Imperio. But he hadn’t caught all of them. All that practice casting Unforgivables, he thought bitterly, wasted after all.

"Come on, you stupid, boorish, ill-mannered lot of ugly _Muggles_ ," said Draco wearily. "Are you really going to let a little thing like loosing a spleen slow you down?" He raised his wand again, and lifted the Silencing Charm from the nearest still-frowning Muggle. "What in Merlin's name is the matter with you?" he demanded. "This is for your own good!"

"Get away from us, you loathsome monster," said the Muggle. "We can get out of here on our own!"

"Oh, bollocks," said Draco feelingly, bringing the Charm down again. "Shut up." He took a deep breath and tried again: "Imperio."

The Muggle glared at him as fiercely as ever, holding her arms out as if to protect the people behind her. Her mouth was still moving. By the look of things, she wasn't saying anything flattering.

“I’ll do it,” said a voice from behind him. Septimus stepped out of the shadows, his wand raised. “I only just got here,” he said. “I’ve been putting some people upstairs to sleep.”

“Oh,” said Draco. He found himself, abruptly, very tired indeed. “You came. Thank Merlin.”

“I got here a while ago,” said Septimus. “But you seemed to have the situation in hand. I thought clearing a way out was more important.”

Draco nodded wearily. Nothing seemed surprising, by this point. “Where’s Lady Strindle?” he asked.

“In her study. I hit her with a Sleeping Charm, and it seemed to take,” said Septimus. “But we should hurry, all the same.” He looked around at the Muggles, frowning. “I suppose Imperio would be the easiest way,” he said. “Half these people are already under yours, anyway.”

Draco lifted his wand, which by now seemed to weigh about a tonne. It was a good thing, he thought, that the Ministry had somehow got hold of his old hawthorn wand: it had always worked well for him, even if it was currently disguised to look like Ernest Crumplehorn’s eight inches of rather splintery pine. Another thing he owed Harry Potter for, he supposed: the Ministry must have got the wand from him. “Listen to him,” he told the Muggles, jerking his thumb towards Septimus. “He’ll tell you what to do.”

 

Septimus seemed to have had some practice when it came to Unforgiveables himself. At least, he held the Imperio firm while they led the Muggles up out of the cellars and, with agonising slowness, out through the creaking, blue-lit halls of the castle and through the narrow, thorny paths of the forest.

“I wouldn’t have got them out,” Draco said blankly. “Not all of them. Not without a fight.” They’d passed at least three burly members of the Worm’s Teeth, charmed asleep by Septimus and snoring heavily. Draco didn’t fancy his chances against any of them, if they’d been awake. He thought suddenly of his parents: Shacklebolt had promised they’d be released if he died during the mission. But, really, had he ever trusted Shacklebolt?

“We’re not out yet,” said Septimus grimly.

But they came through the forest without so much as a day-fly following them, and within minutes had stepped out onto the hard black Muggle road which hugged the cliffs. The road was empty: there wasn’t even one of the terrifying Muggle cars careening along around the curves. The Muggles huddled together, shaking their heads as if their ears were full of water: it looked as though the Imperio was beginning to lose its grip. “Hang on a minute,” said Septimus, bending over something which looked like a Galleon. “I’m calling in some friends.”

“If it’s the Ministry,” said Draco, “they won’t be very pleased I threatened my cover like this.” He realised, as he said it, that he was breaking the fragile pact of silence between himself and Septimus. But he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

“It’s not the Ministry,” said Septimus. “The Ministry doesn’t even know I’m here.” He shrugged. “Neither do my friends, as such. But they’ll help if I ask them.” He cast an appraising glance over the crowd of Muggles and caught Draco’s arm. “Come on,” he said. “If we make it back in time, they might not notice we were gone. I was pretty thorough with the sleeping spells. It’s our best chance for keeping our cover.” He tugged again at Draco’s arm. “My friends will be here in a minute: these people will be fine. Well, more or less fine, anyway.”

Draco, stumbling after Septimus through the grey little forest, found a whole cluster of half-formed thoughts buzzing like day-flies at his heels. Septimus was, unsurprisingly, some kind of Muggle-loving spy. But he hadn’t been sent by the Ministry; in fact, they didn’t know where he was. Which suggested they would very much like to know that very thing.

“What kind of ridiculous do-gooder _are_ you?” he said, almost to himself. Then, as they reached the gates of the castle, he allowed himself, finally, to think back and remember that Septimus, for one, had been able to resist Imperio, and, for two, had had some kind of brush with death in the recent past. And then there was his ability to be completely and horribly infuriating. Not to mention his nasty temper. Draco looked down at the wand in his hand, filled with a sudden sharp clarity. He’d known for ages, he realised. He just hadn’t wanted to admit it. “Oh, fuck,” said Draco. “You’re fucking _Potter_.”

 

At which point, he found himself suddenly muffled by the folds of Harry Potter’s famous invisibility cloak.

“Hold still, Malfoy,” Septimus – Potter – whispered. “We cut it a bit fine. They’re waking up.”

Draco stiffened. “ _Malfoy,_?” he hissed. “When the fuck did you figure me out, then?”

Potter’s breath gusted warmly past his ear. “Oh, so I was right, was I?” he said. “I thought so. But I also thought you might kill me if I said anything, so it was a little awkward to bring it up. It was the way you said it, really. _Potter_.”

At which Draco found himself growing both furious and undeniably, ridiculously, hard. Potter shifted behind him and he realised, with a kind of incredulous vindictiveness, that he was in the same condition. “You went through an awful lot of bother just to get some Death Eater cock, Potter,” he whispered. “Did you really feel that bad about one old man getting hurt in front of you? You ran away from your friends just because of that?”

Potter’s snaked his hand around and palmed Draco’s cock through his trousers, grinding down with the heel of his hand. Draco bit his lower lip and tried very hard indeed not to make a sound. “That’s kind of a stupid thing for you to be saying, under the circumstances, Malfoy,” he said into Draco’s ear. “You don’t have much of a track record when it comes to keeping old men safe. But I suppose it is sweet that you’re so concerned about my wellbeing. I’ve been really impressed by how much thought you’ve been giving me, to be honest. Especially in bed.” He relaxed his pressure on Draco’s cock and straightened up. “I think the coast is clear, now,” he said briskly. “We should really have a last attempt at finding out just what Strindle is planning, now that they know someone is onto them.”

“We really should,” said Draco. “Or the Ministry will have my guts for garters.”

“Yeah.”

"The mission comes first."

"Absolutely."

" _Potter_."

 

\--

 

Five minutes later, they were in Draco’s bed.

“When does the Polyjuice wear off?” asked Harry, taking his mouth off Draco’s cock.

“Any moment now, I think,” said Draco. “I forgot my last dose, what with all the excitement. Don’t stop.” He allowed himself to think, for just a moment, about how he really had Harry Potter’s mouth on his cock. About how Harry Potter was a real person, just like those Muggles with their silly mouths wide open. About how he himself had saved, at the very least, a whole day of Harry’s life, back there in the enchanted forest with the day-flies burning all around them. “Yes, don’t stop,” he said. “Don’t ever stop, Harry.” And he came, embarrassingly quick and heavy and unstoppable, like a castle wall falling down.

“Wow,” said Harry, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m really getting convinced you don’t have a thing for me.”

“Oh, shut up, Potter,” said Draco. “Or I won’t suck you off.”

Harry shut up.

 

A little later, when they were pulling on their cloths, Harry pulled a Galleon out of his pocket and squinted at the writing around the edge. “Yeah,” he told Draco. “The people are fine. My friends got them to the nearest city and they’re being checked out in hospital. Something about a mass stomach bug outbreak, they’re saying. It looks like the Healing Charm took.” He squinted at the Galleon some more, and winced. “My friends aren’t very pleased with me,” he said. “Apparently they don’t think appropriating supplies of Ministry Polyjuice and heading off to fight Death Eaters was a very productive idea.” He shook his head. “I knew Lady Strindle was a ghost. I had a better chance of fighting her than almost anybody else. And I could get past her Dark Mark wards without any problem.” He rubbed absently at his forehead. “I can’t tell you how I did that, though. It’s a connection-to-Voldemort thing.”

There was an awkward pause. “So,” said Draco. “By ‘appropriating’, you mean ‘stealing’.”

“If you want to get technical about it, I suppose.”

Draco sighed. “And by ‘friends’, you mean Granger and Weasley,” he said. “The heroes of Gryffindor. I can’t believe this.”

“Ginny and Dean too, I think,” said Harry brightly. “And you just did a bona fide heroic sort of thing yourself, Draco. Without any reason to, either. I probably wouldn’t have found those Muggles in time, myself. If I hadn’t been following you, that is.”

“I did have a reason,” Draco said stiffly. There was no need to admit to Harry that he hadn’t even thought about whether or not to help the Muggles. He’d just … done it. Evidently, even a Gryffindor in a disguise was a bad influence. “It was a stupid thing to do, though,” he said. “We should get out of here before they finally get their act together and realise it was us.”

Harry held up a hand, staring down at the Galleon. “Hermione has been researching Lady Strindle,” he said. “Apparently her daughter wrote quite a bit about her, after she was de-snaked, that is. Lady Strindle was really, really keen on keeping a hold of this castle, that’s for sure.” He frowned. “Nothing else that we don’t already know, really. She wrote the standard work on inanimate Transfiguration, apparently? Not hugely useful.”

“If there’s nothing there that gives us a hint about finding out what she’s planning,” said Draco, “we should give it one last try and then get out of here. You look at the ghost stuff; I’ll look at the potions. If they haven’t already realised that it was us who rescued the Muggles, that is.”

“You need some more Polyjuice first,” said Harry. “It’s definitely wearing off.” He paused, looking Draco up and down.

“What?” said Draco. Ernest Crumplehorn’s trousers were suddenly rather short for him, he realised, and the hanks of hair falling over his face were white-blond, the colour of ghost-apples. “Realising who you’ve been fucking all this time, are you?”

Harry was quiet for a moment, and Draco, despite himself, felt suddenly queasy. He was grasping for something suitably nasty to say – something which would cut Harry right to the quick – when he felt Harry’s fingers tracing the edge of his jaw. Harry was blurring and softening himself, he saw: his hair growing black and messy; his eyes glinting green. Polyjuice transformations were revolting to watch at the best of times, but Draco thought, watching avidly, that he had never seen anything more beautiful.

“Just stay there for a minute, though,” said Harry. “Before you take the Polyjuice. The ghost light up here makes you look really – really good.”

“I always look really, really good,” said Draco automatically. But he stayed still nonetheless, watching Harry’s familiar face solidify before his eyes.

“I think we’ve got some leeway yet,” said Harry. “Lady Strindle doesn’t even seem to remember we exist, half the time.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so certain,” said a brisk female voice. “After all,” said Lady Strindle, “it’s bad policy to underestimate an enemy who can walk through walls. Petrificus Totalus _,_ Mr Malfoy. Oh, and, by the way,” she added. “I’ve known perfectly well who you were this entire time. The Strindles set their wards to recognise a Malfoy back in the fifteenth century. It’s always good to know when to call for the second-best china.”

 

\--

 

“Don’t worry,” said Lady Strindle, a little later. “I didn’t bother to watch any of your sordid little liaisons. I just made sure that the Ministry had sent someone along after my minor provocation at the memorial service. And when Mr Potter here turned up – well, all the better.

“I was quite flattered,” she continued, turning to Draco, “that you knew my sad story. That Muggle-loving daughter of mine deserved everything she got. And in the end, she got away scott-free after some filthy Muggle came and gave her a kiss.” She shook her head. “Revolting. At least,” she said confidingly, “I kept the castle. I made sure of it, you see. And I knew that, some day, a Dark Lord would arise and put every single person who was anything like my filthy daughter in their rightful place.”

As Lady Strindle talked, she had grown bigger and bigger, Draco noticed, with every word. He and Harry were awkwardly propped against the wall, watching the ghost stride to and fro, wavering and waxing like a cloud of day-flies. Now, she turned on abruptly on one translucent heel, and stood still.

“But enough of that,” she said. “Time to make sure I still have what it takes. I’m confident of my own skills, you understand. But researching the proper potion took quite a bit of work. Spleens are very important, you see, for hunger potions. And for potions which make you hungry for something in particular, they’re downright essential.” She turned and grinned, fungus-white and wider than should have been possible, at Draco. “You’ll see what I mean in a minute, little Malfoy,” she said. “And I wouldn’t count on a true love’s kiss to save you, if I were you.”

Still smiling, she pulled a vial of sickly green potion out of her robes. “I would rather like to make you the recipient, Mr Potter,” she said, shoving ghostly tendrils of hair back behind her ears and looking, incongruously, rather like a Hogwarts professor about to administer a detention. “But I’m afraid I’m a pragmatist at heart, and I learnt from what happened to my daughter. I’d like to see you suffer, but I need you safely dead. Which this Muggle-loving blood-traitor will help me with, won’t you, Mr Malfoy?”

Draco watched helplessly as she spelled the potion out of its vial and it came snaking towards him across the air, a long green thread the colour of Avada Kedavra. He couldn’t even turn his head to see Harry; he couldn’t so much as lift a finger. Then the potion passed his lips, and he found he couldn’t do anything at all which wasn’t feeling pain.

 

\--

 

The next thing Draco knew, he was very big, and very, very hungry. He opened his great mouth, jagged with teeth as long as broomsticks, and scented the air.

There was a delicious, mouth-watering smell coming from quite nearby. Something with Muggle blood in it, he was certain. Nothing else in the world could ever be so good to eat. And there were more good smells, further away. Muggles and Muggleborns in their hundreds – no, in their thousands. He flicked his long forked tongue out, drooling long ropes of greenish spit, and heaved his coils up out of the ruin of the castle tower.

“A bit of a blow,” said Lady Strindle, standing on the air a little to his left. “I should have had you reinforce this part of the castle first. But worth it, I think. It looks as if the dear Vellets’ potion is working just as it ought. They’ll be at the Ministry shortly, by the way,” she said. “With the rest of my Worm’s Teeth. I don’t expect them to make much of an impact, but they should prove a distraction, at the very least.”

She smelt of nothing, not even sea air. Draco turned his head away, uninterested. He was holding the nearest good smell in his coils, he realised. There it was, with black hair again. That was obscurely satisfying, though it was a pity, he thought, about the horn-rimmed glasses. Still, it smelled so good. So tasty. He raised the morsel, delicately, to his mouth.

“Draco!”

There was a voice, he realised. A voice coming from somewhere.

“Draco, put me down!”

Oh. From the tasty morsel. Draco shook his head. How distracting.

“If you eat me, Draco,” yelled Harry, “I’ll tell the whole world that you said my name in bed before you even knew it was me you were fucking!”

“You will do no such thing!” said Draco, scandalised. Then, suddenly, hideously aware of just what he’d been about to do, he slammed his jaws shut. Harry, held delicately in one huge coil, mere feet away from Draco’s teeth, hung on for dear life.

“I can’t believe that worked,” Harry said – or, rather, hissed. “You are there, right?”

Draco nodded his vast, scaly head. Really, he wanted to say, he would much rather not be. But he didn’t dare open his mouth. Harry, and the Muggle city miles away along the coast, still smelled like the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted.

“So it is true,” said Lady Strindle thoughtfully. “About the Parseltongue. I hadn’t credited it, I must admit. An oversight. But a temporary one, I believe. Tell me, Mr Malfoy,” she said. “Aren’t you terribly, terribly hungry?”

The awful thing was that she was right. Draco had never been so hungry in his life.

“Just hang on,” Harry was yelling. “Hermione and Ron’ll be here soon. They’ll bring reinforcements – ”

World-famous for transfiguration, Draco was thinking. Half-a-ghost. She didn’t manage to turn her daughter into an island, after all, but she kept the castle. Of course she did. _You can tell a great deal about a witch,_ he heard his mother saying, _by the state in which she keeps her home._

Moving as quickly and as gently as he could, Draco snaked his coils down over the battlements until he could set Harry down, carefully, in the enchanted forest.

“What are you doing?” Harry yelled. “I should at least try the kiss thing, right? Wait!”

“She transfigured herself,” Draco risked opening his mouth to hiss. “Into the castle. That’s why she’s not properly dead. The castle’s still here.”

And, leaving Harry speechless in the forest, he coiled his vast bulk round the nearest tower, and began to squeeze.

 

Lady Strindle screamed like a banshee, and streaked towards Harry, holding out her wand. “Stop it at once,” she shouted, looming over him like rotten smoke. “Malfoy brat! Or I won’t bother waiting around for you to eat your half-blood lover. I’ll kill him myself.”

Seeing the world through a snake’s eyes had a kind of clarity to it, Draco was realising. You saw from both sides of your head at once, so that the world was made up of two halves, closing in around you like a vice. There was the castle, on one side, groaning and shrieking as the sea-worn stone gave way, inch by inch. And there was Harry in the forest, firing off spell after spell against Lady Strindle, who was swirling round him like a fog, fading a little with every stone that fell, but not fading fast enough. He thrashed his tail, desperately, and more of the castle collapsed, plummeting down into the sea and raising huge plumes of spray. Not even the salt in the air, though, could stop Harry smelling like the best thing in the world to eat. Draco realised that he did not dare leave the castle, even if he knew how to help Harry in the first place. He was stuck, almost as surely as if he’d been turned into an island rather than a Loathly Worm.

“You’ve been alive all this time, then,” Harry was saying. “Sort of, at any rate. It's not exactly surprising you liked Voldemort. The two of you have a lot in common.”

Draco watched helplessly as he shot off another volley of curses. Lady Strindle writhed under them for a moment, then coalesced. “A half-blood like you wouldn’t understand,” she said.

Harry shrugged. “No wonder you attract those day-fly things,” he said mildly. “You’ve stolen centuries of life by tying yourself to that castle.” He cast a glance up towards Draco, who brought down another tower, as if on cue. “I wonder what would happen,” he said, “if someone were to Summon all of those day-flies from where they’re hiding and sic them on you. I don’t expect they’re all that picky about what kind of life they steal.” He laughed, suddenly. “No wonder there was a Shield Charm keeping them from getting inside the castle. But you’re out here now, aren’t you?”

 

And Draco watched in horror through clouds of stone-dust and tall blue-white ghostly towers as Harry raised his wand and summoned a great golden cloud of day-flies, which streamed out of the forest and _into_ Lady Strindle’s ghostly form, which billowed around them like curdled milk.

They were eating her, he realised, from the inside out. Beneath him, the remains of the castle shifted and subsided into little more than a heap of rubble. Draco hardly noticed: he was watching the day-flies flocking around Harry, who was stumbling, exhausted, casting one weak shield charm after another. The charms kept flickering out.

 

Draco moved without thinking about it; without even remembering his hunger. He had Harry in his mouth, behind his long sharp teeth, and lifted away from the clustering day-flies before he could think about just what he was doing.

He’d spat Harry out onto the rubble of the castle before he even thought of swallowing.

“You stupid, stupid fool,” he said, before he realised that speaking let him smell Harry better, and closed his jaws with a snap.

Harry got to his feet slowly, wiping off greenish slime from Draco’s mouth. “Wow,” he said. “Thanks so much.” He turned to look down at the forest, where the day-flies were still boiling in a golden frenzy around a few tattered shreds of what looked like cloud. He gulped. “Actually,” he said, “on reflection … thanks. So much. I think you just saved my life.” He looked up at Draco, coiling protectively around him in in a series of huge green loops, his scales looking rather the worse for wear after taking on an entire castle. Draco was keeping his mouth resolutely shut. “I take it the hunger potion is still working, then?”

Draco nodded his snaky head miserably. He was more hungry than he had ever been in his entire life.

“I thought Lady Strindle dying would break the curse,” said Harry thoughtfully.

“Maybe when the ghost of the castle goes,” said Draco, opening his mouth as little as possible. “That’s still here.” It was: losing its shape, but rising above them in tall shimmering ribs and sheets of white and blue, like the Northern Lights. He didn’t really believe it himself, though, and he didn’t like to say just how hungry he was. The Ministry forces would deal with him soon enough, he thought dully. Harry would make sure his parents were set free.

“I suppose it’s worth a try,” Harry was saying. “Come closer.”

Draco bent his great fanged head, keeping his mouth firmly shut.

“Yeah, closer,” said Harry. And he reached up and planted a kiss on Draco’s scaly snout.

 

\--

 

Which is how, in front of several independent witnesses, including both Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, and a contingent of hard-bitten Aurors, fresh from defeating the Worm's Teeth at the Ministry, Harry Potter ended up kissing a suddenly entirely human Draco Malfoy on a clifftop in Scotland.

“Which would have been a good deal more romantic,” he was fond of saying, “if I hadn’t been covered in Draco’s spit at the time. And not in a good way, either.”

Still, at the time, as the transparent bulk of the castle faded out above their heads, and the day-flies lit up the woods like golden lanterns, it felt pretty romantic to the both of them, loath as they’d be to admit it even, much later, to each other.

“You did look really quite okay,” was the closest Harry ever came to saying it. “For someone who’d just spent half a day as a Loathly Worm, at least.”

“You still had those horn-rimmed spectacles on,” said Draco. “I remember it distinctly. I really can’t think of a worse outfit for the occasion.”

“What, for giving someone a true-love’s kiss?” asked Harry.

“Yes,” said Draco. “For that.” He shrugged. "Or for Strindle castle finally fading out on us. Shacklebolt seems to think it was that which did the trick."

"Shacklebolt has terrible priorities," said Harry. "He didn't even care that you saved me that cauldron."

"You didn't have to tell him that," said Draco peevishly. "It sounded really soppy, the way you said it."

"There was nothing soppy about it in the first place, of course," agreed Harry blandly. "You just went back to that horrible pile of ex-Strindle rubble and searched for that porridge cauldron out of a spirit of impartial curiosity."

"Exactly. And I did charm it to produce mead on demand as well as porridge, you know."

"Very domesticated of you."

"Oh," said Draco, "shut up, _Potter_."

And, pulling each other closer, they walked on out of the Ministry atrium, dodging a phalanx of reporters, a bevy of ardent fans, and Mr Creevey, trundling past in an aggressively Muggle-ish wheelchair.

“But how did you discover his identity, Mr Malfoy?” cried Rita Skeeter, following them towards the nearest Floo with surprising speed.

“Oh,” said Draco airily, pulling Harry towards the fireplace, “I twigged him at once, you know! It was the way he sucked –”

At which Harry pulled him into the green flames of the Floo, and the rest of the sentence was lost – more or less – to history.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! You can show your appreciation for the author in a comment here or on [Livejournal](http://hd-erised.livejournal.com/74753.html) . ♥
> 
> This story is part of an on-going anonymous fest hosted at hd_erised @ livejournal.com. The author will be revealed January 9th.


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